


Tavern Attrition

by samzillastomps



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alistair has a hard time not obliging him, Confrontation, Cullen has a difficult time not asking to be punched, Gen, Implied Past Abuse, Warden Bethany Hawke, background Alistair/Warden, canonically this is Eilwyn Amell we're talking about, implied Bethany friendship yo, it all ties together folks, some hints at the early signs of lyrium dependence, vaguely sad boi Cullen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 08:47:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20690729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samzillastomps/pseuds/samzillastomps
Summary: A Grey Warden and a Templar walk into a bar...... and it goes about as well as you expect it would.





	Tavern Attrition

Smoke and viscera were not new smells, not in Lowtown. However, with the recent upheaval of the Qunari, the sudden fires and the immediate brutality… Cullen couldn’t help but wish, not for the first time, that he was noseblind. The waft of tar and brine pairing with the too-sweet floral rankness of spilled mead and alcoholic vomit was enough to make his stomach turn. He ran a hand along the back of his neck, inhaling deeply the violet oil of his leathers. It managed to mask the worst of it, steadying him on his feet.

It was louder than he expected. The screams seemed to press something deep within his instinct, tightening him into a coil, pushing out all other thought beyond save as many as you can. It was a familiar need, one he leaned into with calculated aggression.

He signaled to his team to split up, sending a few to the alienage as he drew a pair with him towards the docks. Cullen could hear the guardsmen over the din, could hear citizens and water sloshing. Fire teams, then? He ran through the neighborhoods and assessed the damage as he went. Meredith had prepared him for this. She had known it would come down to such a war, such an invasion.

Didn’t it always?

He would not fail this time. Cullen gripped his sword with finality as a snort came from behind his left shoulder. Peripheral indicated a taller entity, one of sinew and red paint. Without flinching, Cullen sidestepped into the alleyway and began to charge.

The Qunari seemed not to have expected a direct attack. In the second before Cullen’s blade hit against the thick cording of the warrior’s neck, he noted the acrid aroma of gaatlok. Slicing indiscriminately, he felled the beast in two hits.

There had to be a barrel, a container, something-

“Knight-Captain!”

Cullen glanced over his shoulder in time to see the flash of a sword, to hear the connection of metal against bone. He lunged to the side of his recruit, ducking under the attack to fend off the five Qunari who’d leapt from the shadows.

“Stand your ground!” he shouted. “Push them back!”

His voice seemed to bolster his men, or at least remind them of where they were and what they were doing. The fearsome roars of the Qunari rang out just as terrifying, but his Templars at either side fought with the righteous clarity he’d come to expect of them. His chest swelled as he parried yet another blow.

This was his purpose.

To protect.

To serve.

They made their way down further, their progress slowed by the influx of fires and the lack of forces. The drive that had vaulted Cullen into action was no duller than before, but he could see his men beginning to tire. When they had a moment in Lowtown, past the Hanged Man, Cullen reached into his pockets and withdrew the last of his lyrium.

“Here,” he swirled the potion in its vial, small and precious, then handed it off to his men.

They didn’t even hesitate. The two of them took it and sipped at its contents, the renewal evident in their posture almost as soon as the liquid touched their tongues. They passed it back to him, cork still uncapped, which took him by surprise. Cullen shook his head.

“Finish it.”

The man didn’t argue.

Cullen knew he didn’t need it, told himself he didn’t need it. This had been for emergencies only anyway, and this was an emergency if he’d ever seen one. He could press on, hold out, ignore the pounding of his blood in his eardrums and then request a further dosage later tonight when all was settling.

He would make sure it would all settle by tonight, if it was at all within his power.

They moved as a unit through the streets, alternating between providing cover for one another as they called out for survivors and directing people towards the Chantry. After a few hours, it seemed as if the worst of it was over, or perhaps concentrated elsewhere. Cullen was motioning for everyone to follow him back up towards the Gallows when he caught sight of a breastplate that seemed familiar.

That symbol.

It- no. It couldn’t be.

The Blight was over.

But he was standing there with two others in armor accented with royal blue, that man from a little over two years ago, the one who knew-

“Knight-Captain,” someone called to him. “We’re being called back!”

“Hold your position!”

Cullen wasn’t sure what overcame him. For him to bark out so thoughtless a contradiction was rare, even to lower ranked Templars. But he couldn’t even bring himself to feel remorse, so quickly was he turning on his heels and jogging after the small band of what he prayed to the Maker weren’t who he thought they were.

“You,” he shouted, his voice broken, his tone desperate, “you there, stop!”

They turned as a collective. Was it some mindless intuition all Grey Wardens shared, or was it merely because Cullen was jogging directly up to the one in the steel plate?

He was foolish. Too quickly had he approached the man that he had not ascertained the woman until it was too late. She gasped, then readied her staff, and Cullen held up his hand in immediate readying of a Silence.

“Bethany, no!”

The man Cullen recognized stepped up between them and held out both arms, one of them resting easily on the shoulder of the mage woman and the other slamming into Cullen’s sternum. He could have knocked them both aside, had his hand still raised and his blood singing. But he recognized her, too.

Bethany.

Cullen dropped his fingers, his mind awash with information. Breathing heavily, he shook his head and trained Bethany Hawke with a level gaze.

“You’re… but… I sent my condolences to your family,” he bit out. “After the deep roads-”

“You hold no power here, Templar,” Bethany stated. “I’m sure you recognize the insignia.”

Cullen forgot where he had been going with his accusations. She was right, of course. Glancing down at the griffin on her battle robes, at the cobalt and silver, he recognized that he had no authority. Strangely, that hadn’t been what caught his attention about her survival. Leave it to a mage to maintain her suspicions, but he had merely been surprised he hadn’t been told she’d lived.

Lived, and thrived, apparently.

Bethany herself looked confident and tall. Her voice had changed. She’d been downright meek when he’d last seen her trailing behind her smart-mouthed older brother, and not even comparatively. She’d never spoken to Cullen without her eyes downturned, and now she stared him down with no trace of fear about her.

Glaring at the staff still in her hands, Cullen supposed he knew why she’d been so quiet in Kirkwall. Not that he hadn’t had his own ideas about her.

“She’s right,” the man between them said, his voice low, as if he was trying to deescalate the situation further. “It does seem like our conversation is done, Templar, so why don’t we leave you to douse your burning city in peace?” The man moved as if to say more, but then his voice caught in his throat. “Wait. Don’t I know you?”

Cullen bristled.

He remembered that tone. The jokes. The way this boy had tagged along to give his two cents when none was warranted, when he could never understand the situation he was trying to weigh in on. Cullen remembered the way he’d looked at Amell when she’d knelt in the blood before Cullen’s prison, less surprised and gape-mouthed than this, though similar.

“We’ve met,” Cullen stated, hopefully encompassing politeness in his tone. “It has been a while, Alistair.”

He was breathing heavily from battle, his armor was too tight, and he had been dealt a few blows that he knew he’d bruise from. But even past what could have disguised his voice, politeness turned to haughtiness, simplicity turned to sarcasm. Cullen felt his words go ashen on his tongue, and worse than that, he felt an eager, petty part of his sated because of it.

Alistair, to his credit, seemed to get himself under control rather quickly.

“It has,” he replied, his voice taking on notes of suspicion and withdrawal. “Much as I’d like to know what in Andraste’s name you’re doing here, Ser Cullen, I’d just as happily forget we ever crossed paths.” His grip switched to Bethany’s arm, a gentle tug before it dropped to his own side. “Come. We have work to do.”

“Your calling card does seem to be showing up in the midst of catastrophe, then foregoing the clean-up.”

It was a low blow. Cullen could hear how petulant he sounded, how arrogant, and yet the words came easily and satisfyingly to edge of his teeth. Alistair rose to it, Cullen could tell by the way his eyes narrowed and his lip curled in a flinch.

Cullen wondered absentmindedly if he was going to hit him. Part of him wanted Alistair to, just so that he could drag the quitter up to the viscount for-

His eyes fell away from the scene before them, finding his own boots as he raised a hand to his head to try to dull its ringing. Chantry bells in his eardrums, pressure against the backs of his eyes, such intense pressure.

Would the city survive long enough for any of this to matter?

“Knight-Captain,” one of his recruits shouted, and Cullen raised his gaze back to his men. “We’re being called back. The Arishok-”

“Now is not the time,” Bethany interrupted, and Cullen heard Alistair sigh. There were footfalls, and when Cullen raised his eyes, he saw that he had been left standing there, fists clenched, impotent and alone.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” Alistair called. “Not that you’ll take it, but I really, truly am.”

Cullen wondered what he was apologizing for. There were so many things that Alistair could be atoning for, where to even start.

But it was not where his mind needed to be, not where his men needed _ him _ to be. Cullen drew his attention back to the crisis at hand, forced himself to remember where and who he was.

He was Knight-Captain. And Kirkwall would not fall if he had any say in the matter.

* * *

It was over rather quickly. Or maybe it seemed that way only to Cullen as he arrived late to the fight. The doors were barred from the inside, Knight-Commander Meredith nowhere to be found, his men split between manning the Gallows with wary eyes and stern vetting, and waiting at the Viscount's Keep for the storm to break.

And then, just as quickly as it had started, it was over.

Hawke burst from the doors, looking semi-conscious as he clung to the Rivaini woman he kept company with. Just behind him, as if likely to catch the great lug should he go limp, was the dwarf, the one who was primarily to be found in and around the Hanged Man.

Cullen watched the procession only briefly before he pushed past them, weaving among the celebrants and mourners, wondering simultaneously how a crowd could be so happy and so downtrodden at once. He found Meredith overlooking a bloody, headless Qunari body.

Her arms were crossed. A horrible sign really. Her brow was drawn upwards, her eyes slits of disdain, and as her lip curled Cullen could sense his nerves tightening with her sneer. When she glanced up and trained her eyes on him, it was as if she had expected Cullen to be standing there all along.

He straightened, saluting her, and she merely nodded down to the Arishok.

Cullen let out a breath, uncertain of what it meant.

When he looked to Meredith for guidance, she did not seem to have any to impart.

* * *

Clean-up was his focus as the night grew cold around them. He wanted to make sure his teams were being sent to patch up any homes that had been damaged in Lowtown, even though the guards were on top of things. Underneath of Aveline, they very rarely needed any Templar help. But seeing Bethany earlier had Cullen desperate in a way he could hardly describe.

As if he’d been betrayed by his own instincts, by letting them fly under the radar. He’d been too far removed, and luckily it had only been with someone as noble as Bethany Hawke. Had his negligence allowed someone more dangerous to run around with magic unfettered, well. That was unacceptable.

Not that Bethany having traipsed about in the Gallows while evading the Circle was acceptable by any means.

If the Templars were helping to rebuild homes, they could easily spot suspicious behavior. He figured it was best to err on the side of caution. The city was tense, even after having let out a collective sigh of relief as Hawke saved them all.

He had to focus.

They all did.

By late evening, the guards and Templars together had managed to repair and stabilize some of the worst of the homes in Lowtown. The alienage was far less amenable to their help, as were his men to actively helping, but Cullen felt like he’d finally done something right. Callously, he wished someone like Alistair was around to see it.

Such thoughts were signs of fatigue. He would need some rest after a day like today, and to prepare his lyrium draught for the morning with an extra gram to compensate for today’s loss. Those small comforts drove him back to his quarters, and staved off further petty contemplation for a few hours.

He was awoken in the night by a nagging sensation that something wasn’t right. He couldn’t put his foot on it, intuition always so difficult to unthread from anxiety, and he knew that if he went back to sleep now the nightmares would come.

They always came when the moon was setting and the world was growing especially dark.

Instead of trying to chase impossible peace, Cullen leaned into instinct. The heaviness in his gut could have been residual nerves from earlier, could have been his own demons coming out to play with the tragedy that had just befallen his city.

He’d rather be wrong, however, than negligent.

When he left his quarters on an impromptu march, he found he was neither. The grounds were eerily quiet, with only a couple of higher ranked Templars situated on watch when there should have been at least five per entryway to patrol effectively. The others, the ones he and Meredith trusted more openly, were inside with the mages, keeping them sorted and calm. Cullen could feel his brow knitting together, a crease forming right in the center.

Maybe they had gone to help within the Circle tower itself, but he’d no sooner thought that than dismissed it. The more green of his Templar recruits would not disobey an order to do _ more _ work. He knew them better than that. If they were skiving off anywhere, it was to sleep in later.

As he checked in the barracks to see who was skipping on watch duty, Cullen noted with very little surprise that the beds were mostly empty, confirming his suspicions and validating the gnawing unease in his gut.

At least eight of his recruits were missing.

Well, he was awake now. No better time to go find them. If he was lucky, he could drag them back before morning so that nobody would be the wiser, so that Meredith would have less on her plate and he could have a chance to talk to the new recruits.

He remembered what it was like. To be green and faced with horrors.

Cullen made his way out of the Gallows, torn between whether or not he should appear angry once he found where they’d snuck off to, torn between bringing someone with him or going it alone.

“You there,” he called to one of the scouts posted by the stairs. A young recruit, he’d forgotten her name. She was jumpy, and she flinched into a hasty salute as he called to her. Cullen sighed. “Where have they gone?”

“Wh-who, ser?” she muttered.

“You know who,” Cullen said, endeavoring to keep his tone firm but patient. “Was it an emergency? Are they in any danger?”

She hesitated, then shook her head.

“Good. Then you have no reason not to tell me where they’ve snuck off to.”

“They…” She paused, as if the words came with difficulty, but then swallowed back whatever trepidation she was wrestling with, the noise in her throat audible through her helmet. “They went to the Hanged Man.”

Cullen nodded.

“Better than the Rose,” he muttered, more to himself than anything, but the recruit squirmed at the remark and ducked her head down. “You didn’t want to accompany them?” he asked, curious.

“I… I’m posted here,” she answered.

“Good. I’ll make sure that, once I find the others, they’re made aware you’ve been here all night. And have not spoken to anyone about their whereabouts.”

The hint seemed to go over her head for a moment, but just as Cullen was about to turn, she glanced up in surprise.

“Th-thank you, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen acknowledged it with a nod, relieved that there were still a few newbies that valued their duties over traditional means of letting off steam. As he walked away, he was even more so relieved they hadn’t gone to the brothel. It’d be harder to get in there, seeing as he was banned for having dragged a group of recruits out without allowing them to pay a few months back.

With a chuckle to himself, he mused that he might be aiming for banishment from the Hanged Man tonight as well, unfortunate as it was.

* * *

The smell of Lowtown assaulted him tenfold once he neared the bar. Vomit, stale ale, and the smoke of greasy meat pies all seemed to conflagrate into a ripe perfume specific only to this location and its patrons. Cullen held a hand to his temple, taking a deep breath of violet oil to steel himself. Above him, somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled along the horizon.

He could hear laughter ringing from within, music, raucuous behavior and cavorting of all sorts. Outside there were a few overly festive denizens either on their knees getting sick or sitting with their backs against the wall. One held out a hand for what Cullen assumed was alms, until he spoke.

“Give us a draught, be a good lad.” The man paused, leaning forward. “Been a while since I’ve made me blood sing.”

Cullen took a step backwards before getting a hold of himself. His heart pounding at the unexpected demand, he took a good look at the crumpled heap of rags before him. It seemed to be a bearded man, with eyes glazed over in a haze of lyrium withdrawal.

Disgusted, Cullen straightened himself and allowed bitter judgement to curl his upper lip.

“I will pray for you,” he stated, his words clipped.

Whatever response the man began to spit couldn’t reach Cullen. He was pushing through the doors, pressing into the cacophony of the tavern, simultaneously clenching his anxiety in his fist and jaw without even realizing it.

The world was bright inside. There were pockets of what looked to be mourners, people crying into their cups, but they were few and far between. Among them were also those Cullen interpreted to be comforters, those that were laying palms on heaving shoulderblades or bringing more drinks to tables.

Immediately, as it so often did when he was confronted with such things, Cullen’s chest filled to the brim with a combination of grim detachment and secretive envy. Would that he weren’t higher ranked, would that the recruits took their duties more seriously, this scene might have been more easily replayed at the eating place* in the Gallows. Before he could stop himself, Cullen thought to Rylen, to the men at Kinloch.

It steeled him more than he thought it would.

Gone were the compassionate feathers that tickled the back of his mind, replaced by the staunch sense of moral obligation. He needed to find his recruits and give them the option of going back to the Gallows on their own, or with threat of punishment.

“No way,” a voice chorused from near his left shoulder. Cullen glanced over, moving in past the door so that he could scan the room quickly. The ones who spoke hadn’t been directing it at him, however, and he did not recognize them. He moved on, walking the perimeter as he searched.

“They sent someone after us.”

“Told you, t’wasn’t right to leave!”

Someone laughed.

Another person shushed the table.

The voices were low, only audible because Cullen was looking for them, because he was arguably more lucid than anyone in this sty. He shot his gaze over to the two tables nearest to the fireplace and confirmed his suspicions.

“Evening gentlemen,” he said, crossing his arms behind his back. “Enjoying yourselves, are we?”

It seemed as if the low lighting, paired with whatever it was in their mugs, had robbed his recruits of just enough decorum and replaced it with stupid bravado. They stood on shaky feet, saluting him haphazardly, but a few of them stayed sitting down. He glared at them pointedly, saying nothing, until everyone was on their feet before him.

“You were expressly forbidden from leaving your posts,” Cullen barked.

The noise seemed to stop all activity in the bar. The music faded to awkward strains of chords until it went silent, conversation dipping into lulled whispers. At the combative tone, all of his men straightened up as if he’d run a rod against each of their spines. A surge of self-satisfaction replaced Cullen’s desire to be gracious.

“Now. Answer me.” He began to pace before them, counting them off as he noted their various degrees of dress. Some were wearing armor, some were in plainclothes. It was atrocious. A breach of conduct beyond merely sneaking off. A terrible example. Pitiable. But at least they were all finally present and accounted for. Cullen bit out his question again through clenched teeth. “Are we _ enjoying _ ourselves?”

“No ser-”

“-yes ser!”

As expected, the drunken replies were loud enough to draw the lingering attentions of those in the tavern who’d been managing to ignore the display until now. Cullen nodded, allowing his gaze to drift pointedly to each of their eyes.

“After what you’ve seen today,” Cullen said, his voice lower now, “I would have expected you to at least be fully armored.”

The ones who were in plainclothes twitched, their arms shifting as if they weren’t sure whether to cross them or hold them stiff at their sides. Cullen sucked one of his teeth, prepared to lay into them further before letting them go.

A hand at his wrist stopped him.

“Hey,” Garrett Hawke stepped up to Cullen’s side. “Is there a problem here?”

“None that won’t be taken care of momentarily,” Cullen answered, drawing his hand away.

The silence stretched out further, and the hair on the back of Cullen’s neck raised in warning. He could discern this was a crossroads of sorts. A choice. Turning to Hawke, he tried to layway his frustration for a moment.

“I… apologize. We are all on edge after-”

“No, there’s really no need, Cullen,” Hawke stated.

Cullen narrowed his eyes, trying to discern if the man was genuine, but there was no malice in Hawke’s eyes. There was no tightness to his lips, no crossing of arms. Instead, the man looked relieved and… actually rather happy, come to think of it.

Cullen extended his hand.

After a brief moment, Hawke took it, shaking it graciously.

“We owe you our lives,” Cullen stated. “Kirkwall would have suffered even more, had it not been for your bravery.”

Hawke seemed a bit disturbed at that, his face falling in what Cullen suspected was authentic humility. But it was hard to tell. Especially since Hawke, too, was red-faced, seemingly more so from drink than Cullen’s gratitude. His wrist went limp for a moment, his fingers merely resting in Cullen’s, and then he was withdrawing with a laugh.

“I’m, ah,” Hawke cleared his throat and gestured back to the bar. “If everything is alright here?”

“Everything is fine,” Cullen stated, his voice low. Around him the music began to swell again, the conversation resuming to fill the empty space left by his shouts, if not a bit stiltily. He held up a gloved hand to his temple and breathed in the floral oil, tried to unclench his jaw.

Everything was fine.

“Knight-Captain?”

It was one of the younger ones, the one who had actually worn his armor. Cullen suspected, as he glanced the lad over, that it was because without it he did not look serious enough to be given even half a pint. The recruit was looking up at Cullen with pained apprehension, but said nothing further.

Cullen’s eyes took each of them in, one by one, and found their faces to be varying degrees of the same emotion. One of them could not raise his eyes, though Cullen wondered if that was due to imbalance and lack of sobriety.

After a beat longer than he meant for his inspection to last, Cullen spoke.

“At ease.”

The recruits obeyed, but each of them, even the drunkest on the end, snapped their heads up to look at him in question. Cullen crossed his arms behind his back and cleared his throat.

“You will be given tonight as leave,” he snapped, and before the recruits could heave a raucous cry, he continued, “Contingent on the fact that you arrive back in your beds before morning watch. That means dawn. You will all be expected to perform all of your duties on the morrow, you are not exempt because of headaches, nausea, or-”

The wave of relief that seemed to crash down over the Templars before him, these citizens new to the rank violence of Kirkwall, was immediate and powerful. They broke into smiles, one of them looking as if he wanted to cry.

Cullen could feel consternation, and a type of deep envy, gnaw at the underside of his ribs. He did not give slack like this, but… but maybe if he’d had this, back when he was young and frightened-

He sniffed, straightened his shoulders, and cleared his throat again. The recruits fell back into order, standing in a line before him.

“Be on time tomorrow,” Cullen said, and they all saluted. “The Knight-Commander detests lapses in punctuality.”

“Yes, Knight-Captain!”

He wanted to leave on that note. He wanted to carry the combination of pride from having his men look at him with appreciation alongside of the dread at how he would have to tell Meredith should they get into trouble. It wouldn’t prevent her from cracking down on them, from coming down harder on him, but maybe the young ones would make it back in time.

Cullen began to head towards the exit, his mind awhirl with a grim satisfaction, when he caught sight once more of Hawke. He had returned to his original table, was sitting amongst friends. The man was raising a hand to him, waving.

At his side, her dark hair braided back and a neutral sternness to her lips, was Bethany.

Cullen’s pulse leapt at the blue armor, at the way Hawke took Bethany’s gloved hand and made her wave to Cullen as well. She yanked her wrist away, then leaned close to whisper something to her brother. As she did, as Hawke’s gaze was broken, Cullen realized he had half put his hand up in an answering wave, and he snapped it back down to the pommel of his sword. Better to grip that than look even more like an idiot.

“She’s just nervous, don’t take it personally,” a voice at the table to his left chimed, obviously loud enough to be addressing Cullen. He turned, closing his eyes very briefly as he said a prayer to the Maker that it wasn’t who he thought it was.

When he opened them again, Alistair was sitting with a pint half-drunk at a table meant for four. Half of it was veiled in shadow, it was a corner meant for contemplation, not conversation.

“Who?” Cullen said.

The words had come unbidden to his lips. It was as if Alistair could draw conversation from a stone. Maker’s breath, he hated that.

Alistair, however, looked unfazed.

“Bethany.” He sighed. “You already approached her once today. Can I ask, as her superior, that you do not try a second time? I think she very much likes her space where Templars are concerned, I’m sure you understand.”

His hackles raised, and yet Alistair looked completely uninterested in having a fight. Cullen scanned his features and saw no trace of confrontation, merely fatigue. He stood before the Warden, a bit shaken at the request.

“Is that why you’re sitting so far away from the party?”

“I am sitting here,” Alistair stated, “because I am merely a chaperone. I’ve got to keep an eye on things, make sure she isn’t approached by those who’d see her in the Gallows.”

“I was not going to approach her,” Cullen said, choosing his words carefully.

“You were looking at her.”

He tilted his head.

“You’re very protective of her for just a chaperone,” he stated casually, looking for Alistair to either refute it or explain himself. “I barely spare her a glance, and I find myself being interrogated. Maker help someone who tries to refill her ale without your permission.”

The Grey Warden leaned forward and touched his gloved fingertips to the edge of his glass. He’d left it so long it seemed to have gone flat, no trace of head or foam about it. Alistair tilted the glass precariously on its edge, balancing it with only the barest touch of his fingers, then pushed it the other way.

Cullen resisted an eye roll. It was like watching a child stave off having to finish his vegetables.

“She inspires that, I think. The protectiveness,” Alistair finally answered. “Even though she can take care of herself. Don’t you think?”

“Mmm.” Cullen could feel a twisted sense of justice, or perhaps pettiness, scratch at the back of his mind.

He’d thought, once, that she exhibited certain signs of magic back when she first began to run around Kirkwall with her older brother. He’d put in the requests to interrogate her, to visit the family, but it had been too late. She’d died in the Deep Roads before he’d had the chance.

Rather than admit that he knew of what Alistair spoke, Cullen sighed.

“Feeling a twinge of sentimentality about a mage,” he murmured. “Seems that’s another trend with you.”

Alistair’s eyes shot to his, a flare of anger written there. Cullen withheld a smirk, knowing that the satisfaction of having touched a nerve was fleeting at best. Still, to see him like this-

“We were in the area,” Alistair answered. “After everything, the least I could do is allow her this. Even though it isn’t nearly enough time to really do much more than remind her what she left behind.”

He gestured for Cullen to look back, with the hand not balancing his half-drunk ale, to where Bethany was sitting with her brother. Cullen followed, glancing over his shoulder in time to see Bethany’s face erupt with gleeful laughter. Someone at the table, for there were many of them, reached over and caught her hands. Her brother had one arm across Bethany’s chair back, his eyes full of mabari-like devotion, and Bethany seemed to be soaking it up as best she could. Her eyes were constantly roving about, as if she was committing everyone’s face to memory, logging every detail of joy.

Cullen hated that his gut immediately churned with betrayal, that his first thought was of how well she’d have done in the Circle. Of how she could have been an example mage to her peers. Now, like this, she was merely darkspawn fodder.

What a waste.

“It is not sentimentality to want to show her some kindness,” Alistair finished, “it’s empathy. Not that you’d know the difference.”

“So you let her have a reunion,” he muttered, more to himself than to Alistair. He wondered how many Grey Wardens were allowed that. If this was even approved, or if Alistair was breaking the rules to give her a night with her brother.

“A reprieve.” Alistair stopped, hesitating, and then added, “Against the horrors to come.”

“Really? Come now, let’s not exaggerate to prove a point.”

Alistair fell silent, and Cullen could hear the glass he was balancing settle gently on the tabletop. As he watched, Bethany glanced over and made eye contact with him. For a brief moment, he could register dread in the fall of her features, as if she were frightened by the fact that he still stood watching her. But then she looked back to her accompaniment as if he did not exist at all.

It was strange, how lonely such a thing felt.

“The Blight is over,” Cullen bit out, and he pulled his gaze away from the happy scene with difficulty. He trained the Warden with a stare he knew made new recruits squirm. Surprisingly, Alistair merely narrowed his eyes in response, as if he saw right through him. “The only horrors that might be to come are those that could arise from mages running wild amidst your ranks.”

Alistair seemed to consider that, however briefly.

“The Blight has ended, yes. Thanks to our Warden Commander. Thanks to people like Bethany.” He lowered his voice, the tone almost playful. As if this whole conversation was laughable. “Like it or not, Cullen, mages don’t need you the way you think they do.”

He moved to pick up his drink, as if to toast childlishly to his own remark.

“Her, least of all.”

Cullen sneered. The man had no idea what he was talking about. Had Bethany trusted him, trusted any of the Templars, she would have been spared the looming threat of an early death. Thanks to Alistair, thanks to the Wardens and her brother, she was robbed of her life. She’d traded it for a poison that would end her prematurely, a death sentence below Ferelden, darkness decaying her from the inside out.

And the man before him veiled it as a freedom. It made Cullen sick.

“Right,” he answered with difficulty. “But I suppose you’re different.”

“I’m not like you, if that’s what you’re after.”

“At least we agree on that,” Cullen said. “Bleeding hearts do not belong in the Order. I’m surprised they’re even allowed in the Grey Wardens. Whoever brought you in must not have realized how soft you really are, or else-”

Alistair slammed the glass down on the table. Cullen flinched despite himself, blinking in surprise as Alistair stood opposite him and placed both palms down on the rim-stained surface. He glared over at Cullen, his lips tight, as if he was pressing them together to stem a flow of words he had not yet considered the ramifications of.

Cullen realized his hand was still on his sword. Its pommel was a comfort, its power a reminder of the weight he carried here. He was no longer a boy, trapped in a prison of his own making; he had grown into the Knight-Captain.

So why, then, did he feel so vulnerable?

“You- you are-” Alistair’s jaw clenched, and Cullen could feel his own chest rise with expectation.

He wanted him to say it. He wanted to hear it, to see Alistair break and grow violent, so that Cullen could retaliate and throw the Warden out into the streets where he belonged. He would make him regret forgetting his station, would have Alistair respect how far he’d come.

Emboldened by his own grandiosity, Cullen matched Alistair’s posture and pressed his own palms flat against the table. He leaned forward.

“Go on. I’m what?”

Alistair’s lip curled.

“You are _ exactly _ what she hoped you wouldn’t become.”

Cullen could feel his breath quicken, his ears rang dull and painful. The insult felt nonsensical, as if it was meant to cut by the way Alistair had said it, but it meant nothing. Cullen scoffed.

“Bethany Hawke never knew-”

“I don’t speak of Bethany,” Alistair clarified, his tone caustic.

Oh.

There was the sting.

Quick and barbed, just below the ribs, the dig towards the one thing that united them in some twisted similarity.

Amell.

Just as soon as Cullen was gearing up to riposte, as he was readying his own bite, Alistair’s face crumpled and he hung his head. His voice was petulant, a low whine, and he didn’t even dignify it with eye contact.

“Cullen… I don’t know that this is helping anyone. I thought… if we could talk… I don’t know. That it would help, or something.” Alistair shook his head, growling down at the table for a brief moment, before finishing, “Can you… can you leave us alone? Just for another hour. Please.”

It took him by surprise. Cullen had expected Alistair to keep going, to stand, to get physical. He hesitated. Of course leaving would be the better option. He’d already made an arse of himself, and the only consolation was that the tavern seemed largely to be ignoring them in the back corner.

But he stood there, frozen. Unspoken words he’d tumbled about his mind for months suddenly there, at the forefront, finally able to be said and sent along with this messenger. The things he hadn’t been able to say to Amell when she’d turned up at Kinloch a second time, the things Cullen wished he’d told her, Cullen could tell _ him _ now.

And Alistair would have to listen. He couldn’t help himself, it seemed. After all, wasn’t it Alistair who’d flagged down Cullen to begin with just now? It was like he wanted to be confronted with everything too. Like he wanted to say things to Cullen he’d had on _ his _ mind.

A disturbing thought, that.

Alistair glanced up, saw that Cullen was not only standing there but also staring at him in a loss for words, and seemed to deflate entirely.

“Maferath’s balls, I don’t understand you.”

He threw himself down into his chair with a soft grunt. Crossing his arms, he heaved an angry sigh and shook his head before shooting Cullen another pointed look.

“If you aren’t going to leave, can you at least sit?” he muttered. “Your hovering makes people nervous.”

Before Cullen could answer, Alistair kicked out one of the other three chairs and settled back into his own. The action seemed harmless enough, and yet Cullen found himself searching for the trap. It had to be one, surely?

At the risk of looking even more unstable, Cullen decided that sitting afforded them both a level of civility he could appreciate. Slowly, he lowered himself into a chair he pulled out for himself, eschewing the one Alistair had so gruffly pushed from beneath the table.

The Warden rolled his eyes.

“Why did you call me over?” Cullen asked, before his nerve failed him. "Why bother?"

Alistair reached up to scratch just beneath his ear as he sighed. His eyes were at the tavern ceiling, as if answers lay in wait up there in the smoky rafters.

“I didn’t mean to get this snarky this quickly, I dunno,” Alistair mumbled. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t going to make a scene, and then I guess curiosity got the best of me.” He gave a mirthless chuckle, one that stuck in his throat from the way he craned his neck backwards. When he looked back at Cullen, he seemed resigned. “Shows how much I know.”

Cullen said nothing. It was off-putting, how Alistair’s tone now seemed subdued. The remark appeared to be directed inward, not sharpened towards Cullen as his previous one had been. The switch was jarring, to say the least.

“I…” Cullen swallowed past the dryness that suddenly plagued his tongue. “I did not intend to make a scene. I apologize.”

He glanced at the table, preferring not to see how Alistair took that. They were silent for a moment, the white noise of the bustling tavern clouding over the intensity of the poor excuse for conversation they’d just had.

“Accepted,” Alistair blurted, so quickly that Cullen took a beat to process that he’d actually spoken. He glanced up across the table and straightened his posture. His head was beginning to pound alongside his heart, his blood carrying pressure and pain with it. He wanted nothing more than to squeeze the bridge of his nose until it stopped, to bury his head in his hands until the ache subsided.

But he couldn’t do that.

Not with Alistair sitting there, waiting.

“So,” Cullen said, and for some reason he had the vague impression that his desperation luckily was not showing through. “How is she?”

Alistair’s jaw muscles twitched, but then he seemed to force himself to relax.

Neither one of them were under the impression that they were still discussing Bethany Hawke. And yet, it also seemed that neither one of them wanted to say _her_ name aloud, either.

“She’s… well. As well as one can be, with the weight of Ferelden on your shoulders.” Alistair brought his glass closer to himself, but did not drink. Instead, he glared down into its depths. “Amaranthine was… hard. I'm sure you heard, at the time."

Cullen nodded, afraid to speak lest he break this tentative truce between the two of them. Alistair sighed.

"But she manages. There is no one better suited to be Warden Commander than she is, even though she’s the first to say it’s undeserved.”

Cullen held his hands together in his lap, his mind conjuring long-forgotten images as Alistair spoke. Images of a drafty library, where he would find Amell curled up underneath of old, discarded rugs past curfew, came unbidden to the forefront of his thoughts. He could recall apologies at the drop of a hat, for she was the first to assume blame and try to make peace.

To imagine her a leader was at once fitting and impossible. He hoped that someone as meek as she could have learned to-

“And what of you?” Alistair asked, interrupting his thoughts. “Knight-Captain. Big step up from when I last saw you.”

“It was an honor to be asked to serve in Kirkwall.” Cullen cleared his throat. “And I could not remain in Kinloch.”

Alistair nodded, less as if he empathized and more as if he agreed Cullen did not belong there.

“It was an atrocity, what happened... but hey. There's no need for us to rehash such things,” Alistair said, looking extremely uncomfortable even as he attempted to smile past the awkwardness. “It’s behind us.”

“It is,” Cullen replied. He hesitated, then blurted, “But while you're here-"

"Afraid I don't want to regale you with tales of the archdemon, either. In fact, I'm all storied out, and so it looks like we're going to have to sit here in complete sil-"

"I would ask a favor of you."

Alistair's eyes immediately grew colder.

"I said things to her she did not deserve," Cullen continued, "and… I would have her forgiveness.”

It was an embarrassing thing to admit. He'd begged Andraste for such, certainly, but to say it out loud to someone who'd been there? That was another thing entirely. However, the idea that this was what made the Warden uncomfortable, that _ this _ of all things was what he wished not to converse about, it steeled Cullen in a twisted sort of way.

At least in this moment he wasn’t the only one ashamed.

A shushing of precipitation fell over the general noise of the tavern, increasing its patrons’ volume to compensate. It was raining, hard. Another curtain to their conversation, or rather to Alistair's hesitation.

“Her forgiveness is not mine to give,” Alistair finally answered. "I'm sorry."

Cullen nodded as if he were contemplating it. As if he didn't already have a remark to volley back at him.

“Then I would have yours.”

Alistair looked absolutely aghast at the request, but he recovered as he cleared his throat. Cullen could see his gaze searching the table, avoiding the request as thunder rumbled ominously beyond them. Finally Alistair gave a stilted nod.

“You have it, then.”

“You don’t know what you're even pardoning.”

“Do I need to hear you relive it to prove my sincerity?” Alistair shot, raising his eyes to Cullen’s with grim unease.

In his gaze was a brokenness, a cowardice, and Cullen latched onto it with the same tenacity as he latched onto prayer after a failed Harrowing. He was suffering, yes, but at least not alone.

“If you want to be honest in your pardoning, then yes.”

Alistair looked as if he were insulted by the whole ordeal, but he did not protest. He gestured with one hand, waving for Cullen to get on with it.

“Did she ever tell you of our final conversation?” Cullen asked, inclining his head. “The one we had in the tower, when you came to Calenhad the second ti-”

“She summarized,” Alistair bit out.

His arms crossed tighter, as if he was hugging himself, and Cullen relaxed his own posture in tandem with Alistair tensing his.

“I want to apologize for what I said to her.”

“And I suppose you’re going to repeat it to me, now?” Alistair mumbled. "You are an absolute glutton for punishment, you know that right?"

Cullen pressed on, ignoring the way the man before him tried to veer off course.

“I told her that if she remained in the Wardens, that she would set a poor example. That if she cared about Ferelden, then she should strive to die in battle and be a symbol for the other mages. Death before corruption. Honor before possession. That is what I would ask forgiveness for.”

For a split second, Alistair stared at him, mouth agape before he could find his words.

“You seek forgiveness... because you no longer believe that, is that what you’re saying?”

“No,” Cullen stated, his voice clipped at the implication. “Because she did not deserve to have it said aloud to her at the time.” Alistair made to say something, but Cullen didn’t allow him the time. “I regret the way my honesty affected her. I still do.”

Alistair’s air fled from the deepest part of his lungs, Cullen could hear it in his exhale. For a moment neither of them said anything, and in his eyes Cullen registered a loss. A kind of acceptance, a giving up of sorts. He’d seen that look before, in the eyes of his recruits when he touched a nerve during training.

“When you said these things to her,” Alistair bit out. “Was this before or after she told you about me?”

Cullen's jaw snapped shut so quickly that his teeth made a dull click against one another. The turn of conversation wasn’t one he’d anticipated, and Alistair hadn’t given any indication he had the desire to dredge _ this _ up specifically.

He shook his head, trying to hide how precisely he knew the answer.

“I, uh... I don’t recall.”

“Sure you do. I can see it in your eyes that you do.” Alistair took in a deep breath and let it out slow. “I already know the truth of it, Cullen, I just want to hear you say it. If you truly expect me to handwave and make all the bad feelings go away, at least be man enough to admit what you did to the fullest extent.”

Cullen’s chest ran cold, and he drew his shoulders back as he glared down the bridge of his nose at the man before him.

“After.”

“And did you say all of that, aloud, to punish her for choosing me over you?”

Cullen swallowed.

"We've gotten this far," Alistair continued. "Don't tell me this is where you draw the line on awkward personal topics?" Alistair smirked. "Or was this all just a ruse to try to make me squirm? Maybe you don't want my forgi-"

“I was never an option.” Before he could stop himself, Cullen could hear his own confession flicker between them in the darkness of the lonely corner table. “I said it aloud to her, to punish myself.”

"And saying it aloud now," Alistair mused. "Who are you punishing now?"

Cullen opened his mouth to try to answer, but found no words. He stammered something inaudible, a flush creeping sick and hot up his neck, and he had to turn away to try to collect himself.

Alistair nodded. For a tense series of heartbeats, neither of them moved. Cullen stared at the ring of condensation around the base of Alistair's glass, and Alistair crossed and uncrossed his arms every few minutes. Outside, the thunder rolling ahead gave a long, low rumble as if it desired to fill the void that stretched between them. The laughter around the tavern faded dull in Cullen’s ears, a headache piercing at the base of his skull so deep he thought he could feel needles at the backs of his eyes. But he did not move. He gave no indication of his suffering.

That was specifically what made him different from the whelp across from him, and he knew it.

His endurance.

His faithful stoicism.

That was what Alistair could never understand about how Cullen had acted towards Amell, could never understand that by driving her away Cullen had always striven to keep her safe.

As if he could read Cullen’s thoughts, or perhaps because his had been running tangentially, Alistair gave a sad laugh.

“She loved you, once,” he murmured. “That’s what makes all of this so horrible on your part. That you knew she did, and still you said what you said. Even when she asked you to forgive her, at Calenhad. Twice.”

Cullen said nothing. The shame lodged deep within his most private of thoughts robbed him of his warmth, of his color. He could only stare, immobile, unflinching. Alistair nodded, drained his ale in one long gulp, and then stood slowly.

“And despite all of this… despite the abuse that she endured, the manipulation you masquerade as devotion,” Alistair sniffed, then let out a sigh as he came around to the side of the table Cullen sat on. He stood there, hands on his hips, a look of thinly veiled disappointment glazing over his features. “She forgave _ you _ a long time ago.”

Cullen stood as well, drawing himself up to look Alistair in the eye directly. For a moment, he wavered, uncertain if he should just accept this as something else to atone for. But his words were acidic and came forth unbidden. If he didn’t ask now, he would never know the answer, and that ate at him as a parasite would, hollowing him from the inside out.

“You said that I’ve become what she didn’t want me to be,” Cullen said. “I seek to right the wrongs she perceives against her, is that not enough? What did she want for me, if not for me to move on?”

Alistair’s jaw clenched once more, and his breathing seemed to be quickening. Cullen had the sense he was playing with something dangerous, taunting a cornered animal, and yet he still reached out, unable to stop himself from seeking answers. Or further punishment. He was dizzily unsure which he was yearning for more in the moment. Alistair tilted his head, his expression aloof.

“She wanted you to find peace,” Alistair whispered. “We both know that it's not the same thing.”

Cullen laughed. It took him by surprise, and the noise seemed to scare Alistair momentarily, or at least disarm him. His eyes went wide and his hand moved to his belt. Cullen laughed because this was absurd, this entire conversation was the strangest thing he could have ever imagined. A horrible little vignette that he barely believed was happening. Yet it was not Alistair's words, but his _tone_ that drew cynical laughter from deep within Cullen's chest. The way Alistair actively seemed mournful of the circumstances... Cullen couldn’t bear it.

“Tell me how to find such a luxury,” he said as he suppressed another mindless chuckle.

"I don't know. But it won't come from any further conversation, I can see that now. So if you'll excuse me-"

“Why is it that every time we find ourselves in the same place," Cullen insisted, "you cut off the conversation before you can admit any wrongdoing.”

"Wh- wrongdoing?" Alistair stammered. "Beg pardon, serah, for striking a friendly fucking chat when you wouldn't leave us be."

"I didn't come here asking for this," Cullen snapped. "All I wanted to know was if Amell had owned up to her own part in-"

Alistair turned Cullen's shoulder so that they were facing back into the corner, facing away from the patrons who may or may not have taken an interest in the display.

“Cullen,” he said, his voice low. “I’m warning you. You have my forgiveness, but I will not hesitate to give you what you deserve if you speak ill of her again.”

“Speak ill of the Warden Commander?" Cullen spat. "The glorified apostate? Never!”

“I mean it. Just calm down. Please.”

“Or what? I’m merely stating fact,” Cullen drawled. “You’re the one too in love with her to see that she replaced one Templar with another, more foolhardy version of-”

The hit was swift and stinging, Alistair’s gloved fist finding Cullen’s mouth in too quick a punch for him to even flinch away from. The world went white for a moment, and he could feel the table rise up to meet his hips as he swayed from the brunt of the impact. For a moment, there was no noise, only a steady pinging tone humming in the back of his mind before all of the pain rushed to the forefront of his mind.

Alistair stood over him, knuckles down by his sides, a defensive posture as if he expected Cullen to retaliate. Cullen swallowed, his mouth too full, the blood coppery on his tongue as he traced the split, ragged edge of his upper lip. His canine had gone straight through. He would need stitches.

As if he'd thought better than to just leave him there, Alistair grabbed Cullen by hooking his fingers into his breastplate and then lifted him up. Cullen, still momentarily stunned, could do nothing beyond grab at Alistair’s wrist in vain and try to regain his footing. When he was on his feet once more, Alistair leaned in close.

“I am not a Templar,” he whispered. “I am a Grey Warden. And unlike you, I thank the Maker every day for gifts he chose to bring into my life. I do not question them, or hurt them, or carry burnt-out torches for them after I’ve destroyed them. I _ cherish _ them. I cherish _her_.”

In an instant, he was released, his own body weight practically crumpling his knees beneath him as Alistair let him go. His hand flew out; Cullen spat blood at the table and attempted to straighten himself up. The headache, combined with the burning sensation of his lip in tatters, was enough to derail all sense of balance in this instant.

“Alright. Get up,” Alistair said, his voice tremulous. As if the adrenaline from a moment ago had fled, leaving him just as shaky as Cullen himself felt. “I didn’t hit you that hard, did I?”

“You… you’ve gone too far, Warden,” Cullen whispered, his words sending a searing heat through his cheeks as they were uttered past his wound. “You could be arrested for this.”

“I realize that. Now, I mean,” Alistair said with a look of intense consternation. “Do what you feel you must. The captain of the guard is at that table, sitting next to my charge. Shall I go alert her of what happened?”

Cullen stood with difficulty, and Alistair actually reached out as if he was actually going to help Cullen to his feet. Cullen snatched his arm away, already swaying in place from the movement but too stubborn to do more than clutch the back of the chair. He didn't deign to answer. Besides, there was no time for him to get a word out before they were interrupted.

“Alistair,” a small voice chorused from behind them. “What have you done?”

“Oh yes,” Alistair answered, sarcasm alight in his tone. “This is all my fault.”

Cullen turned, taking in the two Hawke siblings as they came over to see to the confrontation. Or to add to it. Cullen looked out towards the fireplace, to his men, but nobody seemed to have caught wind of the scuffle yet. Everyone was too drunk, engaged in their own raucous celebration and grieving, the tavern a dichotomy of impotent fear and relief after the razing of Lowtown earlier that very day.

Nobody cared about the corner, about the things that felt so important just a second ago.

Cullen found that even he was done with the whole affair. Whatever need he had for such conversation, whatever perverse desire he held for confrontation, it had been drained of him with that single hit. He was left empty, questioning his own idiocy as he attempted to stand straight and tall while the world carried on hectic around him.

Bethany reached out, pushing past Cullen’s shoulder to get to Alistair. She grabbed for his hand as if to assess it, and Alistair casually took his knuckles from her hands to place them behind his back. When Bethany glanced towards Cullen and took in his injury, her eyes grew wide. Cullen had to look away, to stare at the mail of her robes as he tried to regain equilibrium.

“Tell me you didn’t.”

“Well, I don’t want to lie to you.”

“Alistair!” she burst, the disappointment palatable even through the fog of Cullen’s pain.

“What?”

“Knight-Captain,” Hawke said, turning to him. “If there is ever a time to ask that you overlook a minor indescretion-”

“You promised you wouldn’t do this!” Bethany hissed at her fellow Warden.

“I’m sorry,” Alistair answered. “If you knew what he-”

“I don’t want to hear it! Now we have to leave, and I haven't even gotten to-”

“Beth, no! You only just arrived, please, Alistair tell her she can’t go, please!”

"I can't make that decision, not without-"

Cullen’s head was swimming, the room wavy and disorienting. The noise of it all, the smell, it was too much. He was going to be sick.

Cullen tried to recall earlier in the night. Had he taken anymore lyrium, after having given away the last of his in battle? If he'd just taken more than he wanted, he would have slept dream-free. He would have never gotten up in the night. He would have never decided to sit through this, to beg for this. He could have taken some and been done with everything for never having started.

What had Alistair said?

_ Glutton for punishment. _

Cullen swallowed back more blood. He needed a draught, a quick one. He had some in his room. It would take away the headache, it would steel him enough to sleep. He could stitch his lip in the morning, it wouldn’t scar if he waited that long, would it? It might even heal on its own. He wouldn’t have to tell anyone about any of this.

He wouldn’t have to admit to any of this.

They were still talking around him, but he pushed past them and made his way outside, their words lost for the ringing in his ears.

"Hey. Cullen. Are you alright? Are you calling the guards? Wait-"

Someone reached for him, but only once, and Cullen shrugged out of their reach before they could tighten their hold on him.

* * *

Outside was hardly a reprieve from the chaos of the Hanged Man. Fat raindrops fell loose and distractedly, the thunder that Cullen had heard from within more ominous than the rain itself. Still, it was a portent of what was to come. Cullen knew he would do well to make his way back, to forget this incident of indiscretion just as he had told his recruits he’d forget theirs. That thought was what steadied him as he marched out of sight of the tavern, then out of Lowtown entirely.

After a while, he forced himself to stop and take stock of where he was. If he continued unaware as he was, it was asking for trouble. He’d thought he was making his way back to the Gallows, but as he looked up, Cullen realized he’d gone the wrong direction. Instead, he found himself in Hightown, his feet planted in front of the place where he normally found himself when his blood cried for song.

Kirkwall’s Chantry was lit warm and inviting from within, the glow of votive candles flickering just beyond the red stained glass of the windows at the top of the steps leading inside. Cullen normally felt grace merely by gazing upon its beautiful architecture, but now it seemed to loom skeletal and imposing in the darkness of the oncoming storm.

In the safe haven of these very walls, Cullen admitted his cowardice and failings. Countless times, he prayed for strength. He prayed for the nightmares to stop, for the fear to subside, for him to be able to perform as the Templar he was always meant to be.

But had it ever helped?

The rain around him fell in sheets now, but Cullen paid it no mind. He was elsewhere. In Kinloch, perhaps, or Calenhad, or even Honleath. His mind was awash with scenes from his past choices, too wrapped up in the concept of peace, too engaged with the well-deserved sting of his lip and the reminder of blood on his tongue to even realize he was standing there getting drenched. Wind whipped at his curls, rain plastered them to his forehead and neck. And yet he stood at the steps, unable to move in, unable to move on.

If he was brought here, to the Chantry, was it the will of the Maker?

Or merely a force of habit?

He scarcely knew the difference anymore.

The emptiness in his blood clamored against the insides of his skull, resonating in tandem with the nebulous doubts that plagued him. More than almost anything, Cullen craved the cool release of glass against his lip. His tongue darted out at the mere thought, connecting with the raw flesh there.

He winced, a cold epiphany leaking into his core as the wind picked up further around him and the rain began to wash the blood from the streets of the city.

_ “Give us a draught, ser.” _

This was dangerous, this craving. Was it what kept him from truly attaining what he searched for? Did the blue song of the liquid both he and the mages imbibed, was that what was actively keeping him from being able to move on?

What had Alistair said?

_ “I thank the Maker every day for gifts he chose to bring into my life.” _

When was the last time Cullen had prayed in gratitude, instead of attrition?

When had he knelt in peace, instead of in regret?

“Knight-Captain.”

The call pierced through the white noise of the rain. It was a command that had him tensing immediately, a voice that barked out and was punctuated by a flash of lightning, as if the very elements were at her command. Cullen dragged his hands through his hair, pulling it back and away from his face, and turned to salute.

“Knight-Commander,” he called up to the door of the Chantry, acknowledging Meredith where she stood at the very top step. The words came out broken, his voice unsteady, and he burned with the shame of his own private contemplation being brought to her attention. Cullen wondered how long she’d been watching him for.

Had she been there the whole time?

What was she even doing out here at this time of night?

Cullen realized he was just standing there, halfway up the steps. He began to take them two at a time, bounding up the stairs until he stood before her, soaked, bloodied, breathing heavily.

At first, her face registered an appalled grimace, but she made an effort to be rid of it as he fixed his posture before her. Most likely for his sake, if Cullen knew anything about her by now.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Yes.”

“Anything that I should be concerned about?”

“No, Knight-Commander.”

“Cullen.”

It was a warning. That if he were hiding something, now was the time to divulge it. If she found out about Alistair, about Grey Wardens adding to the noise of Kirkwall’s already tenuous political situation-

“It’s been taken care of,” Cullen intoned, looking up at her through hooded eyes in an attempt to add solemnity to his words.

Meredith glanced down at his mouth, then met his eyes again.

“You've gotten it everywhere.”

“I know.” Cullen resisted the urge to dart his tongue out and lick at the ragged edges of his own skin. “I’ll clean up before tomorrow-”

“You need stitches immediately. See to it that-”

“No.”

At his protest, her eyes flinted, the lines of her cheeks becoming more prominent as she clenched her jaw. Cullen fought to explain himself before she could order it of him.

“Not yet, I mean," he stammered. "I had hoped to first hear a blessing from one of the Sisters.”

“They are in mourning. You will find yourself mostly in solitude here. I had thought to lend my condolences, my strength, but…” Meredith cleared her throat, then lowered her voice. “If you wait any longer to fix that cut, you’ll have a scar.”

He nodded.

“I understand,” he said.

She watched him, suspicious. Cullen held himself upright, tense, his chin high and his eyes blank. He swayed only once, a fraction of an inch, but he could tell by the way her lashes fluttered that Meredith had caught him.

“When was the last time you took a draught of lyrium, Templar?”

The question almost threatened to knock the breath out of him.

“This morning.”

“Before, or after the attack?”

“B-before.”

“I thought as much. You need to take another. Now.” He watched as she took a small vial from around her belt, the glass glowing pale against her skin. Cullen’s mind was awash with relief at the sight, a bitter taste alighting the back of his tongue. The pulse at his throat seemed to vibrate, eagerness tinging his every breath. “Here.”

His hand went out, hesitant, but he could not deny her. He took the draught, uncorked it, and downed it in one swallow, scarcely allowing the liquid to touch his tongue before it was gone. When he could feel the edges of his pain subsiding, when his breathing came easier, he brought his gaze back to Meredith’s and nodded.

“Thank you, Knight-Commander.”

“I expect better of you, Cullen,” she said, her voice strict but not unkind. If he was a greener recruit, he might have felt she was disappointed in him, but he knew better. She was fatigued from all of this. And she was right: he needed to do better. “In the coming days, we must redouble our efforts. This city risks being overrun with maleficar the very moment we begin to tread lightly with them."

Cullen could only stare. He had thought that she had, for a moment, spoken of redoubling efforts to ensure the city was rebuilt. That its citizens were looked after. But as he allowed her comments to sink in, he realized she was right; just as he had suspected earlier that day, so too would suspicion and self-doubt run rampant in the streets of Kirkwall if they let things get out of hand. The Templars, especially ones of his rank, needed to be there to maintain the order. Now more than ever.

"We could not have known this would happen," he said, his voice low, in an effort to comfort her.

Meredith's eyes narrowed, her mouth drawing into a taut, caustic frown.

"If we are constantly prepared for the worst, we will be pleasantly surprised by anything less." She curled her lip. "Do not forget the true nature of evil we are up against, Cullen. You of all people should be turning a hyper-vigilant eye to those who would endanger the safety of our city."

He wasn't sure why, but the comment sliced at his insides.

She was right.

But... he thought he had been doing as much. What more could she ask of him? What did she have in mind?

Meredith sighed, then raised her chin to gesture for him to enter the Chantry.

"Return after your prayers," she ordered. Gone was the sharp edge from her voice, replaced by the firmness he'd come to expect from her. "May the Maker shine his light upon you in this trying time, and grant you peace.”

"Maker watch over you as well."

Cullen bowed, allowing her to take her leave of him, and when he looked up he was alone on the Chantry steps. With the storm raging even angrier above them, at least his headache was abating to where the thunder no longer felt as if it was echoing inside his brain. He glanced back at the double doors and, before his nerve failed him for a second time, he forced himself to go in.

The smell of candle wax, incense, and parchment paper enveloped his mind in a swath of familiarity. He found a quiet corner, not unlike the one he’d wandered into earlier at the Hanged man. Only this time, instead of a flippant former-Templar across from him, it was a statue, a representation of a being who judged him far more accurately for his sins. Cullen knelt, settling his knees against the stone, and clasped both of his hands to the center of his chest as he bowed his head in reverence.

“Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.”

One day he would find that peace, Cullen knew. He could feel it settling into him even now.

“Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.”

Stone surrounded him, cool to the touch, thick enough to drown out the rain. He could hear hushed whispers of hearts in tandem with his.

“In their blood, the Maker’s will is written.”

In Cullen’s blood, the lyrium sang loud and clear, reminding him of who he was, of all that he had overcome and left behind.

The Amell he’d pushed away from himself to protect, the one he’d never meant to hurt, she was long gone now it seemed. But so too was the Cullen that she had known. So, too, was the Cullen she had forgiven. They'd grown past the pain they'd inflicted on one another, grown past the point of being able to offer the other any type of absolution. If only they'd known that, back when they'd last spoken. If only he'd known it before speaking to Alistair. More likely than not they would never see one another again, and this was the mark he was forced to accept he'd left on their worlds.

The thought brought with it a wave of simultaneous grief and solace, the juxtaposed emotions so overpowering that Cullen could barely breathe the ending to his supplication.

“Maker, watch over us all in this, the hour of our need.” He turned his gaze upwards, towards the bowl of flame. "Grant us strength to overcome the darkness yet to come."

He knelt there until the light of the candles burned low, until the words no longer brought a sting of pain to the flesh of his lips or the weight on his heart. Only then, and feeling no more deserving than he had before entering, did Cullen stand and make his way to the exit. It was not enough, was never enough.

But in the moment, the smoke from the votive candles being snuffed out at their wick's end, the oil used to shine the rows upon rows of pews, the starch of the Sister's vestments as they nodded to him... everything combined into a heady perfume he knew meant he was at least momentarily absolved. In that moment, it was all he could do to accept it and force himself back to the Gallows, ready to face the consequences of a new day and the darkness that was surely to come after.


End file.
